“You think it’s funny now, Libby Lamb,” he teased. “Just wait until Sebastian starts asking you about farting.”
“I don’t have to ask her, Dad,” the child replied as quick as a whip. “Mibby farts. I heard her. It echoed in the room.”
“What?” Libby exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“Yeah, when you were on your yoga mat a few days ago, bending over to touch your toes. I heard you fart,” Sebastian clarified.
Libby’s lips parted, then they opened and closed like a fish out of water. “That must have been my…bare feet…sliding across the surface of the mat. It can make a squeaky, fart-like sound.”
Sebastian didn’t look convinced. “It wasn’t a squeak, Mibby. You farted.”
Libby’s gaze bounced from him to the boy, her cheeks growing pinker—and he loved every adorable second of it.
“If I did fart,” she began, not quite conceding, “and I’m not saying that I did, passing gas is a natural bodily function.”
“Your fart sounded like a loud mouse fart, Mibby. Like eeeeeee!” the boy shrieked, close to breaking windows and cracking wineglasses with the high-pitched nanny-fart demonstration.
“Time for bed,” Libby announced, her cheeks a rosy scarlet as she cut off the boy’s mouse farting impression.
“I need my treasures,” he called and reached beneath his pillow to retrieve two items.
Raz stared at the smooth aquamarine stone—the same stone his son had offered up as comfort when he’d been on the brink of a panic attack. And then there was the second treasure, the pocket watch with Mere’s picture. He rubbed his thumb across the stone, then opened the watch. “Good night, Mum,” he said softly. He closed the timepiece with a gentle click, then set the items on the table next to the forgotten glass of water. Wiggling into the pillows, he sank onto the bed and closed his eyes. “I’m ready, Mibby.”
Ready for what?
“Take a nice big breath and let the air out of your lungs,” Libby instructed, settling herself on the edge of his bed. “Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold that feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.”
What the bloody hell was this?
“I’m on the swing set,” Sebastian answered with a resolute nod.
Raz crossed his arms. “What are you doing?”
“Guided meditation, Dad. It settles the mind,” Sebastian answered, eyes closed.
“Oh, okay,” he answered, witnessing yet another facet of the Sebastian-Libby connection he’d missed these last ten days.
“You’re on the swing,” Libby continued. “It’s sunny. Can you feel the sun shining on your face?”
“Yes,” the boy answered as the ghost of a grin graced his lips.
“The wind is whooshing through your hair, and your legs are kicking back and forth.”
“And my mum and dad are here. They’re pushing me,” Sebastian added, his smile widening.
Libby smoothed a lock of the boy’s ash brown hair as his features relaxed beneath her touch. “You’re happy and safe, and I bet you’re giggling.”
“Yeah, and I want to go higher and higher,” Sebastian answered, his voice a dreamy slur of syllables.
“Now, focus on the breeze as you swing back and forth, watching the trees sway back and forth, back and forth…” she whispered as Sebastian’s head rolled to the side, and the lad conked out.
How could Sebastian remember swinging in the garden?
Emotion welled in his chest. The lad was barely three years old when he and Mere used to push him on the toddler swing. He wanted to ask what else his son had mentioned about life before his mother died, but he didn’t. He couldn’t form the words. “That was fast,” he whispered instead, listening to Sebastian’s slow, even breathing.
“He’s had quite a day. He doesn’t always drift off so quickly, but he likes the guided meditations,” Libby answered, adjusting the covers before coming to her feet.
“He’ll be out for the night. He’s a good sleeper,” Libby shared, coming to his side.
“Always has been,” he answered when his mobile pinged an incoming text. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, hurrying from the room. Libby joined him and closed the door behind them as they made their way down the stairs leading from the third to the second floor. Before he’d made it down, he stilled and read the text.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“It’s a text from Aug. He sent my training schedule.” He held out his phone for her to see.
“Augie writes your schedule out on notebook paper, then takes a picture and sends it to you?”
He studied the image of Aug’s chicken scratch writing. “He’s old-school like that. It’s a miracle he can text at all. I remember watching Briggs teach him how to record his voice mail greeting years ago. You’ve not seen comedy before you’ve watched a posh private school millennial and an East London old-timer huddle over a piece of technology barking at each other like Chihuahuas.”
She laughed that laugh he wished he could bottle up and save for a rainy day, but the amused expression didn’t last long. Her smile disappeared, and her countenance grew serious as she slipped the mobile from his hand and stared at the screen.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Pun-chi yoga is written on the page.”
He’d seen it there and had been surprised, too.
“Yeah, you must have impressed Aug with your demonstration.”
She bit her lip, still focused on the screen. “Or he feels like he has to add it because I shared it with the press.”
“Aug’s not like that. Not when it comes to training. If it’s on the sheet, it’s because he believes it’s exactly what I need to do to win. It means he trusts you with my training.”
That curious glint in her amber eyes returned. “It’s amazing to think that my idea is part of anyone’s training protocol. It’s ironic, actually,” she answered, sinking to sit on the bottom step.
“How so?” he pressed, joining her.
There was an oddly lovely equilibrium between his large, muscled legs next to her toned, smooth ones. They’d had to change their clothing after the rain-soaked donkey adventure. He’d slipped on a pair of mesh athletic shorts and a T-shirt. She’d done the same—well, the ladies’ version. Sebastian had taken it upon himself to assign them their rooms, and Libby had emerged from the bird-inspired blue and violet bedroom in a pair of fitted runner’s shorts and a simple white tank top.
He relaxed onto the step, taking comfort in her company. There was something calming about sitting on the staircase. It held a purgatory-like quality as if anyone who remained on them existed in a middle ground, a neutral plane. Sitting there with Libby, he didn’t have to decide if they were coming or going. They were simply together, and he liked it, liked the relief of not having to prepare for what came next.
She returned the mobile to him, then leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. They sat for a spell before she spoke. “Remember that day—the day with the gong and the vibrators?” she asked, then leaned back and pretended to throw an invisible sex toy at his head as the rosy hue returned to her cheeks.